Pieces of War
by catharticone
Summary: The Doctor and Martha lend their support to a battleworn field unit.  However, the soldiers aren't the only victims...
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: "Doctor Who" is the BBC's property. No infringement is intended._

_Special thanks to Sonic Jules for her unflagging encouragement. _

_This is my first, and likely only, attempt at writing Martha. The dynamic between her and the Doctor doesn't speak to me as did his and Rose's. That said, I still felt an interest in challenging myself to feature her in a story, just to see if I could manage it. All feedback is most welcome!__  
_

* * *

If she hadn't been up to her elbows in blood, Martha might have actually allowed a mordant laugh to bubble up from her aching chest. The Doctor had an infallible knack for walking smack-dab into the middle of trouble, and rarely was it some little piddly issue like a family squabble or a sinking lifeboat. No, it always seemed to be something monumental, often involving maniacal monsters or avenging aliens. It was usually messy, often sticky, and nearly always dangerous.

This time was no exception. He'd managed to land them right in the midst of a war. Within ten seconds of stepping out of the TARDIS they'd heard the concussion of heavy artillery. Within ten minutes they'd walked close enough to see the fiery, smoky blasts. Now, ten hours later, they were a part of the battle. It had quickly become clear that the stronger side was employing unfair tactics and using superior, alien-influenced technology. The weaker side—the ones in the right, she'd quickly determined, due to their desire to do nothing more than defend their homeland from the invaders—was in substantial peril. Most of their soldiers were dead; nearly all remaining were wounded.

She and the Doctor had dodged several explosions to make their way across the battlefield to the losing side's front lines. She'd been knocked to the ground twice, once hard enough to leave her dizzy and gasping for breath with dull pains between her shoulder blades and in her arm. But she'd got to her feet to find the Doctor in a similar position about five meters away. The blast had thrown him back, but he managed to scrabble up and join her, apparently not much worse for the wear.

They'd found the make-shift hospital in a large tent just behind the line. Martha had immediately entered and begun helping with the wounded. The Doctor had given her a single curious look and asked, just once, if she was all right. She'd responded affirmatively and gotten to work.

He had sought out the commander, anxious to offer whatever help he could to mediate an amicable cease-fire or perhaps even an end to the fighting. Barring that, she was sure he'd come up with some brilliant plan to drive the invaders away. But that was his domain. Hers for the last nine hours had been the hospital tent.

She'd found only two medics still able to work on the wounded, and one had shrapnel in his leg. Martha had removed it and bandaged the wound; he had insisted on immediate return to service. There were more than two dozen injured soldiers with varying degrees of damage. She had sutured over twenty bullet and shrapnel wounds, treated a dozen serious burns, and examined two men with severe head trauma who would not survive the night.

She'd wished for the Doctor's help with each passing hour. He'd poked his head inside once to ask how things were going, casting a cursory eye over the beds. She'd told him that another pair of skilled hands wouldn't be refused, but he'd given her a brief reply about "the bigger picture" and departed as quickly as he'd come.

Well, she supposed he was right. After all, stopping the fighting would benefit everyone in the end. But damn, she could've used his deft fingers to hold the clamps over that shredded iliac artery…

She barely realized that the blasting had stopped. Her head buzzed with exhaustion, and her chest and legs ached dully. Her fingers were growing numb, too, she supposed from continued stress and pressure on the nerves as she repeatedly applied clamps and held needles a bit too firmly, but no more so than required to keep her hands steady.

She was just suturing the last of the wounds, this one a fairly minor leg laceration, when the needle slid from her fingers. She reached for it, but her digits felt heavy and awkward. She lifted her hand, frowning at the deep crimson stains that saturated her skin. Her eyes moved upward, and she found blood on her arm beneath the sleeve she'd pushed up over her elbow hours ago.

There was a large, dark stain on her upper arm, too, and suddenly it occurred to her that she hurt. She gestured to the medic to complete the suturing for her then stepped toward the back of the tent to the small, littered desk. Her legs felt shaky, and she wobbled as she walked. Martha sank down onto the edge of the desk and slid up her sleeve with fumbling motions to reveal a deep gash just above her bicep. It had not yet closed, and it seemed to be bleeding still.

There was that heaviness in her chest again, and damn it, her hand barely responded when she reached for a roll of bandages.

"Martha."

The Doctor's voice penetrated the fog that was suddenly surrounding her. She looked up.

He still had a smudge across his cheek, and there was a raw scrape on his forehead; he must've hit his head when he fell that second time.

"We got to them all," she said dully. "We lost four, but all the rest—"

"Yes," he replied, and now he was standing before her, looking down at her with a strange expression. "You did, Martha. You helped save many lives today."

"Is it over?" she asked. Her hand flopped uselessly on the desk, the roll of bandages impossibly far from her feeble reach.

He nodded. "We've negotiated a cease-fire. There're stipulations—no one crosses the line for forty-eight hours until the commanders have had a chance to sort things fully—but the fighting's stopped for now. There won't be any more injuries, and I think this will effectively end the war."

"Tha's good." Why did her tongue seem so thick? Her gaze locked on the remnants of blood on his forehead. She needed to clean it, to wipe away any debris and germs remaining. She tried to lift her hand to touch his face.

"Need to attend to that," she rolled her eyes toward his brow.

He caught her wrist in a soft grasp and lowered her hand. "It's all right."

Her arm was stinging now, drawing her attention away from the Time Lord. She wondered that she hadn't felt any pain before. She glanced down at the deep cut and said, "Need a suture kit, I think."

His hand slid up her arm, fingers well away from the wound. "Yes."

Martha blinked hard and took a deep breath then pushed herself to her feet. Her legs immediately gave way. He eased her back to sit on the desk, keeping his hands at her waist.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Long day. Just gotta take care of this and clean up your head, then I'll check the bandages on that skull fracture." Her eyes flicked to one of the soldiers lying in a nearby bed.

The medic who'd suffered the shrapnel injury was now reclining with his leg up. His eyes were closed, and she thought that he was asleep. The other medic—he'd told her his name was Tava or Teva or something like that—was standing a few meters away, watching her.

She tried to rise again, but her legs refused her. She shook her head in frustration.

"Help me up," she said rather shortly, because the Time Lord was just hovering in front of her, and even though he'd helped to broker the peace deal, he hadn't been of any use to her as she'd stitched and cut and cleaned and bandaged the countless wounds…

"Martha." His voice was soft yet firm. "Stop."

She'd managed to haul herself half-way up and realized that she was clutching ineffectually at his sleeves with unwieldy motions.

"No, gotta check his bandage—could be bleeding, wound was really deep—"

"Martha," he bent in so that his face was very close to hers, "it's time for you to stop being a doctor for a little while."

"But I have to—"

"No, they'll be fine. Sergeant Taya will take care of them. Right now we need to take care of you."

She stared at him blankly. "Me?"

"You."

She felt her body sinking down, suddenly realizing that she was going to fall and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.


	2. Chapter 2

Martha would have fallen to the ground if the Doctor's sure yet gentle hands hadn't caught her. He lifted her carefully into his arms. Taya hurried over.

"Bed's are all full, and then some," the medic said apologetically. "But you can take her to the captain's tent—he won't be needing it now." His glance shot to a man whose head was thickly swathed in bandages.

"Thank you," the Time Lord replied hastily. "Where is it?"

"Third one on your left."

"I'll need some supplies," the Doctor said, already walking toward the large flap that served as a doorway.

"I'll be in as soon as I can. I need to make sure one of the patients is stable first."

"No, you stay here. I'll take care of her."

Martha looked up at him. His facial muscles were tight, but when he felt her gaze he glanced down and gave her a reassuring smile.

"If you could just gather some bandages, antiseptic, suture supplies," he said quickly, nearly at the doorway now, "I'll come back for them soon."

"Of course. Send for me if you need me."

The Doctor gave a curt nod in response then carried her outside. Martha was very tired, so she closed her eyes for just a moment, just to escape the glare of the sunlight. Her head lolled against his chest.

Suddenly she was shifted around, and something touched her backside. She opened her eyes to find that the Time Lord was setting her upon a cot. This must be the captain's tent. The Doctor lowered her head to a rough pillow then slowly stretched out her legs. She watched him with morbid interest; she could see him moving her limbs, but she could barely feel it.

He removed her shoes and lifted her left foot a few inches. "Wiggle your toes," he said.

She complied, or at least she thought she did, but her toes remained motionless against his hand. He ran his thumb over the bottom of her foot.

"Martha?"

"Trying," she rasped.

He set her foot upon the bed then took her hand in his. "Try your fingers," he said.

Martha was alarmed to find the same unsatisfactory result. The Doctor's expression was oddly implacable as he observed her efforts. He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently rolled her onto her side.

She felt him sliding up her shirt then heard the rip of fabric. In a moment he had pulled the garment away from her. For just an instant she was glad that she'd chosen a pretty burgundy lace bra countless hours ago.

His cool fingers touched her back, just above her shoulder blades. Her thoughts were fuzzy, but she still knew that his hand was over her spine. Was he nearer the C7 or T1 vertebra? In her peripheral vision, she saw him remove the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and hold it over her.

"Martha," his voice sounded overly calm to her, "there's a small piece of shrapnel just here," she felt a soft press against her back.

"C7?" she asked, fighting back the panic building in her gut.

"Yes. It's putting pressure on your spinal cord. That's why you can't move your fingers and toes."

She nodded in understanding.

"It's very small, and I don't think it's done any permanent damage," he continued, "but it's caused some swelling. So I'm going to remove it, and we'll see about getting you some steroids."

"Nothing permanent?" she repeated, because that was a very important point and she needed to be sure.

"No." He rubbed her shoulder reassuringly. "I'm just going to pop over to the hospital tent for a moment. Be right back." He leaned over so that she could see his face and offered her a small smile.

"Try to stay still," he added as he hurried from the tent.

She didn't have much choice, really, because her arms and legs had clearly rebelled against her. She still felt fuzzy, but she tried hard to recall what she knew about spinal cord injury. Sometimes paralysis was temporary; she was certain about that. But often it wasn't. And this probably wasn't the best place to receive high-tech treatment, either. The panic welled up in her again; tears prickled at her eyes.

By the time the Doctor returned, her cheeks were wet. Martha wished she were able to wipe them, but the best she could do was rub her face against the coarse pillow case. She hesitated to do even that for fear the movements would exacerbate the injury.

The Time Lord's arms were full, and she heard him setting various items out on the small table beside the bed. He leaned over again to ask how she was, frowning at the tears leaking from her eyes.

But his expression softened as he said, "It's going to be all right, Martha," then he brushed his fingers over her wet cheek.

She whispered, "Yeah."

He shifted around behind her again, and she heard more shuffling and clinking. She wished she could see what he was doing; somehow she thought that would provide her with some confidence, or at least some small measure of comfort. He was quiet as he prepared the supplies, and she found the absence of his usual chatter oddly disconcerting.

He commented briefly and dispassionately that he was going to remove the rest of her clothing then proceeded to divest her of her bra. She thought that he did a good job of keeping his eyes focused only upon her back. He pulled a clean sheet over her hip and chest, leaving the injury site exposed.

Finally, after the sounds of splashing, he came around the bed to stand before her. He'd removed his jacket and neatly rolled up his sleeves; his glasses were firmly in place. His hands looked a little pink, ostensibly from a thorough scrubbing.

"We're all set," he said with what she thought was forced optimism. "You need to remain very still."

"I know," she whispered.

He gave a curt nod then moved around to sit behind her hips, saying, "I'm going to give you an injection to numb the area. I think this has the same chemical formula as lidocaine, because it metabolizes as monoethylglycinexylidide and glycinexylidide, but they call it 'perculiase'. Anyway, it should do the trick nicely."

She was almost comforted by the brief return of his prattle. She felt only a very tiny pinch as he injected the anaesthetic, and she made a mental note to compliment him on his light touch. Now, however, was not the time for talking. The numbness set in quickly, and then she saw him bend slightly, hands moving to the top of her back.

Martha waited anxiously, holding her breath while he worked, because even one tiny movement could cause him to falter, and it was such a delicate task to begin with…

She was growing light-headed, and the pressure in her chest was very uncomfortable.

"Got it," the Doctor said. There was no hint of triumph or smugness in his voice, just an exhalation of relief. "Now you need to breathe."

Martha inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. He was still working on her, probably irrigating the wound.

"I'm going to give you a steroid injection," he told her. "It should relieve most of the inflammation, but it's going to take a little time."

"Yeah," she replied softly. Of course she knew that, but she thought it was kind of him to tell her anyway.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him preparing another syringe, then a few moments later taking bandaging supplies from the table. When he'd finished, he carefully arranged the sheet to cover her back, leaving her lying partially on her belly, partly on her side.

He slid a pillow under her thigh for support then turned his attention to the deep gash on her arm.

"You lost a lot of blood," he said, almost conversationally as he prepared a third syringe. He rubbed a bit of alcohol over her skin then delivered the injection, once again with barely a pinch.

Her arm grew numb quickly. As he wiped an antiseptic-soaked gauze pad over the wound, the Doctor continued, "Hard to believe you didn't feel this or notice the blood, but then I suppose it just mixed with all the other..."

She took a sharp breath, keeping her eyes on his hands as he bathed the wound with saline then held another piece of gauze over it.

"Must've been the adrenalin," he continued. "Amazing stuff, that. It can have anaesthetic effects in large quantities. Still, I wish you'd felt this a bit sooner, because you're going to be weak for a little while now. But I'll see about getting you some fluids, maybe some electrolytes too, and you'll be feeling better in no time."

Martha watched him prepare a suture needle then begin closing the gash with motions that she could only describe as comfortably adept; his fingers guided the needle through her skin as though he were sewing silk. The sutures were fine and delicate, slightly looping, and she thought she'd have to ask him to show her exactly what his technique was, because she'd never seen work quite like it before. She wondered for a moment whether his skills might truly have been better employed in the hospital tent rather than in the negotiation room.

He wrapped a bandage around her arm then began tidying up the supplies. She lay quietly, eyes half-closed. She was so tired, but she doubted that she'd be able to sleep. Maybe she wasn't quite a full-fledged physician yet, but she knew enough to understand that, despite the Doctor's efforts, the paralysis might not resolve. The damage could well be permanent.

She drew a shaky breath and tried to ignore the rapid fluttering of her heart.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sergeant Taya entered the tent, his eyes swept over Martha appraisingly. "How is she?" he asked.

"She's going to be just fine," the Doctor replied firmly. "She could use some fluids, though. Could I get a saline IV?"

Taya shook his head. "I'm sorry; we're very low on them. We're trying to save what we have for emergencies."

"Of course. I think she can handle fluids by mouth."

"I'll bring some water and some electrolyte powder. Do you need anything else?"

"Nope, not at the moment."

Martha found their conversation, which completely excluded her, rather annoying, but she was too weary to protest. Maybe Taya thought she was sleeping.

In a softer voice, the sergeant said, "We couldn't have done it without her. We only lost four today; if she hadn't been here, it would have been at least ten, maybe even twelve or thirteen. She's very good."

"Yes," the Doctor replied seriously, "she is."

Taya stepped closer to the bed. Martha could feel his gaze on her and was suddenly self-conscious of her near nakedness beneath the sheet. There was a soft touch at her arm.

"I saw all that blood on her," the sergeant said in a low voice, "but I thought it was from the men. One of them had a pumper—thought it'd got on her. I didn't realize she'd been hurt. With the dark shirt, I couldn't really see the stain I suppose."

"I didn't know, either," the Doctor replied somberly. "She never said—"

There was a quick shuffle of feet, then Taya stepped away. "I'll have someone bring the powder and some fresh water."

"Thank you."

Martha heard more clattering and clinking, and she thought for a moment that she smelled smoke, but that was probably just the remnant of the last battle. Her eyelids lowered even more.

* * *

She didn't realize that she'd been asleep until she opened her eyes and saw that the interior of the tent was dim. There was a glow of light from one corner, but it was clear that night had fallen. She wondered how many hours it'd been.

Then she remembered her injury. She tried to move her hand, watching it as it lay limply on the sheet before her. Her wrist twitched, but her fingers remained uncooperative. She groaned in frustration.

"Martha?" The Doctor appeared at her side, brow furrowed with concern. "Are you in pain?"

"Still can't move it," she replied shortly.

"Well, it's been less than an hour since I removed the shrapnel. The swelling won't have gone down fully yet."

"Oh. I thought… it seemed like I was asleep for longer."

"No, it's only been a little while." He moved away again then returned carrying a basin. A bit of steam rose from the contents. "I was just heating some water," he glanced at a small pot-bellied stove at the back of the tent.

He sat down beside her again, by her back, and she heard a soft squelching sound. A few seconds later something warm moved over her shoulder and forearm. She saw that he was running a washcloth over her skin. He'd cleaned the area around the wound earlier, but dried blood remained elsewhere. He worked carefully, with gentle strokes, removing the crimson stains.

When he'd finished with her arm and hand, he uncovered her other hand and bathed it, too, then he wiped the warm cloth softly over her cheeks and forehead. Martha was amazed that such a small action could feel so good. It was soothing and a bit calming, and she was so, so glad to have the blood washed away.

"That's better," he said cheerfully. "Now let's get some fluids into you."

He came around to face her and knelt next to the bed. He held a large cup in his hand; a straw stuck up from the top. He positioned the straw so that she could easily slide it into her mouth.

Suddenly a thought occurred to her, and she compressed her lips. "I'm not thirsty right now," she muttered.

"No? Well, you should drink this anyway." He nudged her lower lip with the straw.

"No. I don't want it."

He frowned a bit in confusion. "Why not? It doesn't taste bad, really. I had a little sip just to be sure. You can hardly pick out the electrolyte powder—just a little hint of citrus."

"Maybe later," she murmured, opening her mouth as narrowly as possible.

"Do you feel nauseous? Oh, I should've checked for that before." He set the cup aside and began running his fingers gently over her scalp.

"I didn't hit my head. I don't have concussion," she said.

"Abdominal trauma," he muttered quickly, slipping a hand beneath the sheet. His palm pressed over her belly. Any lower and he might just exacerbate the building problem.

"Stop it," she said shortly. "Stomach's fine."

He looked at her quizzically. "So you aren't nauseous?"

"No."

"Then come on, open up." He pushed the straw at her again.

She pressed her lips together in response. He looked quite worried now.

"What's wrong?" he asked with concern.

"I—" She looked at his anxious face and couldn't hold back. "I don't want to drink anything until I can move again."

"Why's that?"

For a genius, he was awfully thick sometimes. "It'll go right through me."

"Well," he said slowly, "probably not. Dehydrated as you are, your body will absorb most of it."

"But not all."

"Probably not. But I still don't see—"

"Doctor!" she hissed. "I'll have to, you _know_…"

"Do I? You'll have to what?"

"Use the loo," she finished with exasperation.

"Oh. Oh!" He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck then nodded seriously. "No problem."

"No problem? I've gotta disagree with you on that, because if I can't move, it is going to be a problem, a big problem."

He leaned in a little and rested his hand over her shoulder. "I'm sure I can get a catheter from Sergeant Taya."

She glared at him, cheeks aflame. "And just how would you propose that it get put in, because you sure as hell aren't going to do it!" Her heart thudded in her chest.

He sank back on his heels with a wounded expression on his face. "Sergeant Taya will surely know how." He paused, clearly thinking. "Well, actually he may not, if he's only had training and experience with male patients, and he's a medic, not a doctor, so probably he—"

"Doctor!" she croaked, "please, just let me be."

He rested his elbows on the edge of the cot. "Martha," he said grimly, "you really do need to replenish your fluids. Aside from the blood loss, you haven't had anything to eat or drink in over twenty hours, unless there was a little snack bar tucked in the back of the hospital tent, which I seriously doubt. No shop either, of course." He sighed wistfully for a brief moment. "But in all seriousness, you need to drink this." He lifted the cup again.

"I will. I promise," she said miserably, "just as soon as I'm able to move."

"Dehydration won't help the swelling to diminish any faster," he reminded her.

"I know that."

"Well." He tried a different tack. "You also know that doctors do all sorts of things for their patients, like suturing their wounds, removing nasty bits of shrapnel, and inserting catheters—"

"No, they don't," she interjected with as much stubbornness as she could muster. "The nurses do that." Her heart was pounding, and her chest was beginning to feel heavy.

"If your patient needed a particular procedure, you'd do it without hesitation, wouldn't you? Just like you clamped arteries and closed wounds today."

She knew full well where he was going, but she couldn't think of a suitable retort. Besides, her breath seemed to catch when she tried to inhale, so talking probably wasn't the best idea at the moment.

"Martha Jones." He rested his hand against her cheek. "You need fluids, and you need them now." He wrapped his fingers around her wrist with his other hand. "You can feel what's happening to your heart. I don't need to tell you about arrhythmia caused by significantly lowered electrolytes. You know it's not good, but it's completely curable if you simply drink this." He slid the straw between her lips again.

Martha was nearly as frightened by the strange heartbeat as she was by the paralysis. She took a small sip; he nodded gratefully at her. He sat patiently as she continued to sip the liquid. When she'd finished, he checked her pulse again then stood.

"I won't be long," he said, striding out of the tent.

She closed her eyes. Maybe she could fall asleep again, and when she woke this would all be over, or perhaps she'd find that it was all just a dreadful dream. But it wasn't, of course. He returned shortly, and she decided to keep her eyes shut. If he thought that she was asleep surely he'd leave her alone for a little while—maybe long enough for her to recover. She didn't have the strength to consider any other option.


	4. Chapter 4

"Martha." He spoke her name softly.

She did not open her eyes. She felt the sheet moving down. God, what was he doing? Was he planning to uncover her completely just to insert the damned catheter? Didn't he have any regard for her feelings at all?

His cool fingers touched her wrist and remained there. She peeked at him through half-raised lids. He was focused intently, obviously a bit concerned.

Martha recalled another time when he'd looked just like this: the terribly efficient, highly skilled doctor utterly intent on saving the life of Laszlo, who'd been altered by the Daleks and nearly died as a result. That day, as she'd worked at his side to help stabilize the fellow, she'd realized that he'd earned the right to his title many times over.

"I'm all right," she murmured.

He looked up at her face and smiled. "Pulse is still a little irregular, but it's improving. I've got some more electrolyte powder." He prepared the drink and she obediently sipped it until it was gone.

She had to admit that she was feeling better. Her head was clearing, and she could tell that her heart rate was returning to normal. However, she could also feel pressure building in her bladder, and that was not good.

She looked around the tent, as much as her stationary position would allow. The Doctor had set some of the medical supplies on the small desk near the door flap, among them a paper-sealed, flattish packet. She recognized the general size and shape well enough; he'd managed to find a catheter.

Martha pressed her lips together in growing frustration. This was so not good. She wasn't sure if she had sufficient muscle management yet to have full control over her bladder. So there was a distinct possibility that she'd have an accident before he inserted the device. She debated whether that would be a possible solution to her problem. It would avoid the need for the catheter, but it would prove awfully embarrassing. And what if he decided to try to help her get cleaned up?

She was still mulling over these thoughts when the Doctor stood and moved to the desk. He rested a hand lightly on the paper-clad packet then turned to look at her. He watched her for a moment before returning to her side to uncover her feet.

He ran his finger along her sole again. She couldn't quite see her toes, so she kept her attention on his face. When she saw a grin spread across his lips, she knew that she hadn't imagined the small movements she hoped she'd accomplished.

"Well done!" he said. "Try the other one." He nodded after a few seconds. "Good job, Martha."

She was already wiggling her fingers. They were not fully responsive yet, but she could make them grasp the sheet awkwardly. He moved toward her head to observe.

"I'm not paralyzed!" she finally burst out.

He was still grinning. "No, you're not. But I knew you wouldn't be."

"Bit cheeky," she said with a smile of her own.

"No, just confident."

"Now that's just conceited," she teased.

He frowned for an instant. "Oh," he amended, "I didn't mean in me. I meant in you."

* * *

After another half hour, Martha could move her hands, arms, legs, and feet with some measure of control. It was enough to convince the Doctor that she'd manage in the loo if he could help her to get there. He'd suggested a bedpan, but she'd declined rather adamantly.

She would never say, in retrospect, that using the camp bathroom was pleasant, but she did manage mostly on her own. The Doctor had to assist her with her jeans, but she took care of the rest.

The small task, however, left her utterly exhausted, and she realized that she hadn't slept since they'd departed from the TARDIS. Once back in the captain's tent, the Doctor tucked her into bed, and Martha closed her eyes without hesitation.

When she woke, it was light outside. The Doctor was not in the tent, but within a few minutes he sauntered in carrying a tray with some sort of hot cereal, tea, and juice. She ate heartily. Shortly after her breakfast, Taya came to visit, clearly pleased with her recovery. He thanked her again for her help and reiterated that many patients would have died if she had not been present. Another man entered the tent a few minutes later. The Doctor introduced him as the commander. He offered his gratitude to her and the Doctor with firm handshakes and what passed for a warm smile in a military man.

The Doctor popped in and out of the tent for much of the remainder of the day. He mentioned helping in the medical unit, and she had no doubt that he'd been invaluable. As evening fell, she heard a very familiar noise and realized that the TARDIS was nearby.

She got out of bed, legs only slightly unsteady now, and poked her head out of the tent. The Time Lord was walking toward her, from the direction of the latrines.

"Did you bring the TARDIS here?" she asked as he neared her.

He nodded. "I think it's time for us to be going."

"But I thought no one could cross the lines for another—what is it now, twenty-four hours?"

"Well," he replied, "things have settled now. I don't think anyone even noticed me." He held out his arm to her. "Are you ready to go, Miss Jones—pardon me, Doctor Jones?"

Without a glance back, she answered, "Absolutely."

He'd parked the ship behind the latrines, at the back of a supply tent. Apparently no one had noticed it. As they walked through the camp, it occurred to her that she should check on some of the more critical patients that she'd treated. The Doctor, however, urged her to continue on to the TARDIS, sliding an arm around her waist and leading her forward.

She was still tired, so she did not argue with him. The thought of a shower or bath, fresh clothes, and the familiar hum of the ship were just too appealing…

Once inside, he quickly dematerialized, taking them into some quiet corner of space. Martha slipped out of the console room and to her own bedroom before he even realized that she was gone.

* * *

She was just undressing when he tapped at her door.

"Martha?" He hesitated just a moment. "May I come in?"

She pulled a robe around herself. "Yeah, I suppose so."

He stepped inside. "You haven't showered yet, have you?"

"Was just about to."

He shook his head. "Wait a few minutes. Let me finish sorting your back and arm first." He gestured to the bed, so she sat.

He removed something from his pocket; it was a device about twice as large as the sonic screwdriver. He rolled up the sleeve of her robe and removed the bandage from her arm. She looked down to find the wound well closed with no sign of infection.

"This is really good work," she said. "I've never seen sutures quite like this. Can you show me how to do these?"

He arched an eyebrow at her. "What, you want to learn my technique?"

"'Course. It's amazing."

He smiled then carefully removed the sutures. To her surprise, all it required was a single snip with a scissors then one pull for the entire length of thread to come away.

Then he switched on the instrument and ran a beam of light over her arm. Within a few seconds the skin began to meld, and in less than a minute there was no trace of the wound.

"Wow," she said, running her finger over the site. "That's some technology."

"This?" He held up the instrument. "Just a basic dermal regenerator. Standard first aid any time after the twenty-fifth century. Sorry I didn't have this before." He stepped around her and touched her shoulder. "I'll just take care of this," he gently brushed his fingers over the wound left by the shrapnel, "then you can have your shower."

She nodded and untied the robe, letting it fall over her shoulders. He bent over her, and after perhaps thirty seconds she felt him pulling the robe back up.

"All right, good as new."

She turned to look at him. "Thanks. And thanks for taking care of me before."

He shook his head. "It should never have come to that. I'm sorry you were hurt."

"Seems like part of the package."

"It is, sometimes, but it shouldn't be."

"If we hadn't been there, how many would've died?"

"I don't know."

"But lots more, yeah?"

He nodded slowly.

"Then it was worth it. That's what it's all about."

He rested an affectionate hand against her cheek then turned. "Tea?" he asked as he stepped through the doorway.

"Yeah, sure. Give me fifteen minutes."

He lifted his hand in a small wave then disappeared. Martha stood and headed for the bathroom. It had been a rough two days, but she knew now that she wouldn't have missed it for the world—or for the universe.

* * *

_Fin_


End file.
